


Fibronacci

by Thysanotus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-25
Updated: 2005-11-25
Packaged: 2018-10-27 07:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10804686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thysanotus/pseuds/Thysanotus
Summary: This was written as a gift ficlet from the Cookie Jar for prurient_badger. I will award cookies to those people who (don't already know) can tell me what relation the title has to the fic (beyond the obvious naming of the sequence in it). Thanks to darkasphodel for everything, and also stick_around for putting up with me.





	Fibronacci

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: _This is mathematical porn, and highly, highly strange. Also, het._  


* * *

this mathematical series begins with the number zero…  
  
-  
  
-  
Numbers  
-  
build  
-  
the world.  
-  
Fact of life.  
-  
Terry lies on his back.  
-  
The room is dark. His breathing pulses rhythmically.  
-  
Arithmancy notes are scattered across the floor, white snowdrifts in mounds piled high.  
-  
If you control numbers, you can control the whole world. The truth resonates through his body, tingling as the power flows.  
-  
Numbers flicker across his illuminated parchment, green glowing sickly, painting themselves onto Terry’s skin until it seems he wears an impermeable variable suit of numbers as chainmail. Numbers seen as armour, numbers shielding him.  
-  
Terry pays most attention in Arithmancy. Professor Vector entrances him, talking about irrational numbers, π, derivatives, bracelets clashing. He stops breathing when she bends over his parchment, fingers tapping on his proof. therefore, if we assume that a² + b² = c²… Her bracelets slide down her arm, clashing crashing jingling, until the sound of bells makes him hard.  
-  
The Ravenclaw table is noisy, but Terry sits in a puddle of silence. He counts the students still trickling in, making predictions to himself, about hair colour, height, sex, age. Dinner swirls around him as he counts peas on his plate. five, eight, thirteen… He doesn’t have enough to feed the ever-hungry sequence, so he steals more from Mandy’s plate. It angers him that people don’t – can’t – won’t see the structure, the arching crystalline beauty that defines numbers in the world. He follows Michael from the table, wordlessly, counting stars.  
-  
Light streams through the window at two-hundred-and-ninety-nine-thousand-seven-hundred-and-ninety-two-point-four-five-eight kilometres per second, and Terry feels safe. The heavy book of Arithmancy proofs on his lap is open to page thirty-seven, and he has a blank sheaf of parchment and fresh quill within easy reach. His bed is made with precision, sheets even on either side, pillows at right angles. the sum of all of the angles in a triangle is one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees. A shadow falls across the pages, and Terry squints against the light.  
  
“You can’t work all day!” Michael exclaims impatiently, grabbing the book and throwing it onto the bed, where it bounces, opening, disordered and random, to page one-hundred-and-forty-four.  
  
Terry blinks, confused. “What else is there to do?” he asks, slowly.  
-  
They stagger out of the Three Broomsticks, arms around each other, laughing and hiccuping in the snow. As they stand there, swaying back-and-forth, Terry raises a shaky arm to the sky. “There are more stars in the sky,” he slurs, “than there are grains of sand on earth.” Michael tries to look suitably impressed, but fails miserably, dissolving into giggles.  
  
“How’d they know that? They count all of them?”  
  
Terry sighs, legs unsteady and head spinning. “’M going to be sick,” he chokes out.  
  
How many butterbeers? three five eight thirteen – but he loses count and has to go back to the beginning. Now they’re coming up in reverse – thirteen eight five three.  
  
He leans on his knees, spitting up bitterness, choking as it froths onto the snow in the alleyway. Michael strokes a hand over his back, small circles over the twelve thoracic vertebrae.  
  
The taste is sour, and he spits, trying to get the lingering flavour off his tongue.  
  
Michael slips an arm around his shoulders, trying to balance him, but he’s drunk too, and slams Terry’s head back against the wall.  
  
And then Michael is on him, snow reflected in his eyes, lips firm hot slick, tasting of the one one two three five shots of firewhiskey he downed, slamming the glasses back onto the bar - five three two one one.  
  
Stars burst behind his eyes. Terry counts them all.  
-  
The crowd gasps as Harry Potter spirals towards the ground daringly. Terry narrows his eyes and calculates vectors and trajectories, looking almost disappointed when Potter doesn’t collide with the turf and become a smear of raspberry jam.  
  
The players swerve over the pitch. A dot of red is the quaffle, thrown in a parabola against the painful blue of the sky. Shielding his eyes, Terry follows the curve, plotting it on a graph, tracing the line carefully with his quill and ink.  
  
Screaming rises from the crowd as the Gryffindor Keeper deflects the quaffle effortlessly, batting it towards the dark-haired Chaser. Terry watches the tail of her broom rise and fall, and the shape of its distribution, sketched against the infinite blueness reminds him of a similar distribution, the rise and fall of Professor Vector’s hips as she sways away from his desk, and he has to grip the splintery wooden bench three times three is nine. three times four is twelve. three times five is fifteen searching for breath.  
  
Cho swoops out of the light, dark hair framing her face, but all Terry can think of is brown hair tied in a bun, bracelets jingling jangling clinking on a slim white arm. His nails bend in the wood, eyes closed nine times three is twenty-seven, nine time four is thirty-six, nine times five is forty-five lips moving.  
  
The space behind his eyelids is dark and infinite. He can arrange numbers in any shape he likes. He tries to build a twelve sided pyramid, but it comes apart at the edges and the faces drift away, tauntingly. Inside, an oval flattens out, winking. He recognises the shape, the eye, the dark lashes. He constructs a three dimensional model, trying not to pant harshly in the sudden silence.  
  
He rotates the eye in his mind, adding shading here and there to make the model seem more realistic. As colour effuses the iris and he places the eye into the face, face onto the body, twelve times three is thirty-six, twelve times four is forty-eight, twelve times five is sixty he bites down on his lower lip, five millilitres of blood spilling across his tongue.  
  
The bell rings, and Terry comes in his pants.  
-  
His dreams are full of her. She stands in a field of numbers, silver numbers arching to the sky. She beckons him with one one two three five eight slim milky fingers and he has no choice, no choice but to follow her.  
  
The landscape is barren, gritty red sand and numbers lying in discarded piles, towering, reaching for the sky. Straining to be one, aching, he can feel the pain and counts under his breath one one two three five eight steps across the hot sand, grains sticking to his feet.  
  
Her hair is no longer tied up, flowing free and loose, trailing past her six cervical vertebrae to terminate somewhere at the fifth lumbar vertebrae, and Terry hungers to weight that shining brown mass in his fingers, learn the mathematical dimensions of her shape, trail his fingers along the perfect sine curves of her breasts, learn the normal distribution of her bottom, the simple slope of her instep, the radius and circumference of her flesh.  
  
She crosses this barren landscape, tiny prime numbers blooming in her footprints, one two three five seven eleven thirteen. They spill, ever-increasing and Terry traces her steps eagerly, shards of numbers pricking his feet and tasting his blood.  
  
A black river crosses the sand, and she sits on the shore. Terry hovers uncertainly behind her, watching numbers drift, spiralling lazily on the current as she smoothes that mass of hair over one shoulder and sketches on the dirt next to her.  
  
He sits next to her, folding his arms around his knees, doing his best to form a zero. Nothing. That’s what he is.  
  
She stretches one milky smooth clinking chiming tinkling arm towards him, moving it down the midline of his body, over his forehead, smoothing his chest, gliding over his belly, one plus one is two, two plus two is four, four plus four is eight teasing his straining erection.  
  
As she rises up and comes down on him, in this strange land of numbers and black shining rivers, Terry gasps for air human lungs require two to four litres of air at least fifteen times a minute overcome as the equations in his mind struggle to process this hotliquidslide around him, pressure and spherical heat combining to squeeze and push and stroke, rubbing satinvelvet tongue teasing against his own.  
  
The pressure in the base of his stomach builds and he clenches his teeth as she adds his hands to her sine curved breasts, nipples hardening under his fingers, as he learns 4πr².  
  
The sound of her panting fits neatly into 4/4 time, and Terry thinks of the mathematical implications inherent in music before the sudden clench of her muscles around that most sensitive part and one plus one is two, two plus two is four, four plus four is eight the scalding mucoid slide of her subtracts his essence.  
  
An average male will ejaculate 7,200 times in his life. This will be the only time that Terry will remember clearly enough to use as a memory to conjure a Patronus.  
  
The dormitory is shrouded in gloom when Terry opens his eyes. They are oddly crusted together, and he wipes away gritty particles from his lashes.  
  
He slides his feet off the edge of the bed and feels sand between his toes.  
  
Reaching for his wand, he whispers ”Lumos”.  
  
Red sand trails across the floor to his bed, disappearing amongst the sheets. He counts the footprints tracing back towards the door one one two three five eight.  
  
Following them through the school, padding quietly with his wand, counting footsteps, he finds himself outside the locked door of the Arithmancy classroom.


End file.
